thejunipertree: (Default)
01 - Introduction
02 – Your first love
03 – Your parents (this is long as HELL) )

04 – What you ate today
05 – Your definition of love
06 – Your day
07 – Your best friend
08 – A moment
09 – Your beliefs
10 – What you wore today
11 – Your siblings
12 – What’s in your bag
13 – This week
14 – What you wore today
15 – Your dreams
16 – Your first kiss
17 – Your favorite memory
18 – Your favorite birthday
19 – Something you regret
20 – This month
21 – Another moment
22 – Something that upsets you
23 – Something that makes you feel better
24 – Something that makes you cry
25 – A first
26 – Your fears
27 – Your favorite place
28 – Something that you miss
29 – Your aspirations
30 – One last moment
thejunipertree: (Default)
Yesterday, I submitted a credit application to Mini. It was rather nerve-wracking.

Today, I got a phone call back from the finance officer I've been speaking to informing me that while my credit is just peachykeenfine, I do not actually have enough of it to be approved for a loan. But that she believes if I were to have a co-signer, it shouldn't be an issue.

Cue much wailing and gnashing of teeth.

See, the only person in my life who could do such a thing is my father. And he already co-signed for my brother's truck a couple of years ago. I felt bringing this up to him would not fill him full of joy and song.

Surprisingly, I was completely wrong. I called him up this evening while I was still at work and broached the topic. He was totally fine about it, almost nonchalant. I wanted to shake the phone and ask whoever it was on the other line what they had done with my father.

After work, I drove over to his house with the credit application, filled out the appropriate areas, and had him sign it. It took him thirty seconds to sign his name, literally, and I was more than a bit disturbed at how shaky his handwriting has become. My father used to have beautiful penmanship. Think thirty seconds to sign one's name isn't all that long? Try it right now. See how long it takes you to sign your own name. See? It's fucking disturbing.

Papers signed and stowed away in my messenger bag, we shot the shit for an hour. Made jokes about what it's going to be like for me to have a car which actually does what cars are designed to do. He bestowed the highest of praise upon the Engineer ("He's a good guy") and once again pointed out how much like my mother I am. He also gifted me with my grandmother's cookbook, copyright 1942 (this is going to be an entire post of its own).

Tomorrow, I'll be faxing these papers over to Mini and see what they say. As things have turned out, I'm probably not getting an 09 because it would take six to eight weeks to order what I want (which is actually a terribly simple build). I was prepared to bite the bullet and do this, but on the dealer's website, I found an 07 with just over 7k miles for three hundred dollars cheaper. Black, with a black roof, which is precisely what I wanted in that department. Heated seats (everyone crows about this, but my ass has been chilly for 34 years as it is, heated seats weren't on my list of must-have) and a sunroof (I'm not thrilled with this, but as long as there's a slide to block the sun, I'll be fine). And the best part? I don't have to wait two months to get the damn thing.

So. Hopefully, I'll have an answer by the weekend.

The idea of making this much of a commitment is filling me full of nameless panic, but at the same time I am also almost overwhelmed with excitement at getting a new car. Particularly, my second-most dream car. I am, in turns, almost bouncing out of my seat with joy and hiding under the bed in fright.

Pretty soon, I'm going to have to change my car icon keywords to "in a little black car". I'm going to cry so hard when I have to give up the Beast.
thejunipertree: (Default)
Holiday dinner went as well as to be expected. The turkey fell apart when I tried to hoist it out of the pan when it was done, dinner was an hour and a half late because I'm not so good with time management, and [ profile] wemble narc'ed my brother out over a piece of pie.

I got strangely and vaguely surly mid-way through the day, which I am attributing to a case of the holiday-ick. I was surprisingly un-hungry and just pushed food around on my plate for twenty minutes, which isn't unusual when I've got a good surly brewing. The pendulum swung back after a bit and I started feeling like more like my normal, slightly chirpy self.

I did, however, at one point inform my father that after he dies and I receive my inheritance from him, I am going to be knee-deep in strippers and blow. He was not nearly as amused by this as I was. But that's ok, because shortly after, he rolled out his annual "Why don't you and Middle Brother talk to Eldest Brother? That's not right; you're family." speech we seem to have the pleasure of hearing every holiday function. Only there were no semi-colons involved because I'm fairly certain my father has no earthly idea of what a semi-colon even is, let alone- how to use one. Not to mention the fact he said it to me and didn't actually type it anywhere.

There is now a boatload of leftovers at my apartment (including two and a half pies!) and I am sitting at work about to eat my boots because I haven't been able to have lunch today and I am starving.

All in all, not to worst of holiday experiences. Despite the brief surly attitude and the bout of weepiness mid-afternoon because I was missing my mom pretty hardcore. Oh, and the cat deciding to run over my face when I was lying on the couch. I am now sporting a rather fetching scratch on my right eyelid which hurts and is swollen. The cat received no leftovers for his trangressions. Little bastard.


Apr. 30th, 2008 12:41 am
thejunipertree: (Default)
Has anyone ever heard of The Playing Fields?

Holy Mary, Mother of Mice. This is a goddamn good band. Like, for reals.

I had received a friend request on MySpace from some DJ in London and when I went to check out their profile, Hello, New World was playing. Sweet Jesus. I immediately searched them out and downloaded their entire album, after only hearing that one song and now I've been listening to them over and over for the past couple of hours while I work on my Western Civ II exam.

She thinks of her father as a train wreck,
Riding his rollercoaster towards death, and
They speak in a twist of languages,
Speed winding in her stomach round
All the bends.

(& all you'll ever see is you looking back at me.
& all you'll ever see is you looking back at me.)

It puts this knot in my stomach that I can not explain.


Actually, how I feel about that bit of lyric can be explained. Particularly if you know anything about my father. But, I mean the music as a whole.


I'll quit while I'm ahead. Go listen to them. Now.

A description, if you please:

"The band’s sound is... what might happen if Lou Reed and H. P. Lovecraft met in a pub one dark and gloomy night and decided to form a band. Some of the most hauntingly-poetic lyrics ever to grace a debut - or for that matter, platinum - album." (Music4M)
thejunipertree: (Default)
The following is my entry written on Friday night, but was not posted due to my internet connection being borked for a while and I was busy all weekend:

I was actually doing ok today. Well, err, yesterday since it's now after midnight.

I had come to terms with the fact that I was indeed aging another year, and a pivotal year at that. 33! My "Jesus Year", as Joanna calls it. To be brutally frank, and quite dopey, the thing that really clinched it for me was the realization that my now-current age is also a Smashing Pumpkins song. I never said I wasn't a dork.

At any rate.

I was actually doing ok. Work was incredibly annoying, but I muddled through it. I came home, cleaned up the apartment a bit because people will be here on Saturday night and no one wants an icky apartment to hang out in. I took parts four and five of a five part online Human Biology exam. I fed the cats and the ferret. I opened presents from the Engineer (and dude, let me tell you how he's won boyfriend points for the rest of this year because he got me a wee bat preserved bat in a jar). I made dinner. I ate some leftover cake smash from a failed bake-sale experiment. I watched Ghost Hunters.

And then, around eleven o'clock, it hit me.

My father hadn't called me to wish me a happy birthday.

What. The. Blithering. Fuck.

Some of you may remember last year when I got my panties twisted because my brother forgot my birthday. And this same group of you may also remember that in the entry I wrote about that particularly fun event, I stated that I really don't ask for much when it comes to my birthdays. I don't expect fan-fare or presents; shit, I don't even expect a card. I don't require a fuss to be made over me. And I mean this shit; it's not just spin to make me look saintly.

What I do require, however, is that certain people in my life verbally acknowledge the occasion. They are, in descending order of "you're going to get your ass handed to you if you forget this shit": my boyfriend, my father, my brother, and my best friend.

That's it. Four people. I told you I don't ask for much.

And I find it enormously fucked up that people I've been friends with online for a very short time managed to put forth the effort that my own goddamn father couldn't pull off. Hell, even Thee Pumpkin Girl text-messaged me to wish me a happy birthday and I haven't heard from her since, like, March.

This hurts.

A lot more than I realized at first.

When I was discussing this with Wemble on the phone tonight, she said, "Well. Maybe he's coming over early tomorrow morning with a big surprise present for you." And all I could do was laugh. I can't even remember the last time my father bought me a present for anything, let alone my birthday. But, that's not even the point. The point is that he forgot. And I am pissed.

At the same time, I feel incredibly guilty for being angry and upset. I've sat here for an hour now, writing in fits and starts, deleting almost every complaint I have because it makes him sound like a deadbeat douchebag. And nestled in between the guilt are vast waves of worry. What if something happened to him?

I don't know.

I'm going to bed. If I sit here and think about this any more than I already have, I'm just going to make myself even more upset. And that won't serve any purpose.

Maybe he'll call me tomorrow.


Well. He did wind up calling me on Saturday. I'll give him that.

However, when one forgets one's only offspring's birthday and follows this up with a voicemail message stating, "I'm calling to wish you a happy birthday. I forgot to call you yesterday. Shit happens. Call me back. Love you." one is not looked on entirely too kindly by said only offspring. Shit, even Middle Brother remembered this year. And he got me a card. Two cards, even. In my family, that's our version of a sloppy demonstration of affection. One card in my family is like a banner day in a regular family's birthday reportoire. Two cards? That's like getting a goddamn pony or something.

I love my father; I really do. And not only because he's only one of two family members that I still really acknowledge. He's my daddy. And he's done a fuck of a lot for me in my life. But, he's also let me down more times than I can goddamn count.

Sure, the good outweighs the bad. But, it doesn't make the bad hurt any less.

I really need to come to terms with the fact that I will never have the family that I've wanted for as long as I can remember. How the hell am I supposed to accomplish that?
thejunipertree: (Default)
She's been gone for just over two years now, but it is always startling to me how my mother still creeps into family gatherings and watches quietly from the corner. Her name was evoked last night, frequently and with great love.

Last night was enjoyable, except for the ages-old arguement between my father and I over how the Mason-Dixon does not extend to New Jersey. It's been quite some time since he started prattling on about that how part of New Jersey is considered the South (tm), I'd almost forgotten how much I want to kick him when he does. He wasn't as melancholy as last year's gathering, which is always good, but there was still an odd air about him. I know he was at the bar before he got to my apartment (and he was late getting there!), but he wasn't visibly drunken or anything of the sort. He just

He got a sad cast to his features when talking to Middle Brother and I about how we're not associating any longer with Eldest Brother. I had to explain to him that this isn't just a case of family nonsense; we simply can not put our selves and our hearts on the line for that man anymore. He causes too much pain and takes no responsibility. Of course, my verbal version of this to my father included far more profanity because I had been hitting the wine all afternoon as I cooked dinner and I know the color was high in my cheeks by the time dinner rolled around.

Still, all in all, the evening went well. I didn't burn anything down, I only forgot one thing (and it was a pre-dinner baked brie en croute), and Wemble only fell asleep once. I still have a load of dishes in my sink that are currently weighing on my obsessiveness, but I'm going to take care of them when I get home from work.

thejunipertree: (Default)
There has been a bit of talk in my head about purchasing a Christmas tree (a real tree, not any of that fake plastic shit and none of that goddamn spray-on snow, either), but funds are a bit tight and I'd like to reserve as much money as I can for buying presents for myself the people that I care about.

I miss Christmas trees, though. They were always my favourite part of the holiday. That and giving things to people in fantastically wrapped packages. Evergreens, no matter what the variety, just smell great and they make me happy. A tree in the house! And you cover it with shiny things! How much cooler can you get? The actual holiday can take a long walk off a short pier, but I do so love the decorations.

When I was a child, my father would decorate the entire house in blue. Blue lights on the tree and all over the house's exterior. Blue and silver ornaments. Blue garland. Blue candles. Blue wrapping paper. Everything. And I was always so proud that our house was much prettier and enormously different than everyone else's. He stopped doing that some years ago, despite my loud protests. And last year, he didn't even put the lights up all over the outside of the house and the trees surrounding his property. It made a small, black lump of despair rise up inside my chest, but I'm becoming used to that feeling when it's a situation involving my family.

I miss the apartment being covered in decorations for this time of year. This will be the second annual not-decorating-of-the-apartment. It doesn't get any easier. All the decorations and baubles are still in their battered boxes in my father's basement and I don't think I'll be dragging them out any time soon. It's still too painful.

But, trees are something I can get behind with no troubles. It just doesn't seem like this time of the year without getting one. Maybe I can find a wee one, something small and nicely apartment sized, to place on top of the extra coffee table that I still haven't gotten rid of. I could swathe the bottom of it in a ton of fabric from my sewing box and pick out my favourite ornaments from the boxes in the cellar. I could even buy some purple or blue garland and string that around the living room, with my purple bat lights. If I can remember where I put them. Or I could buy cheap blue lights at Target. Ghetto Christmas.

It wouldn't cost that much money to buy a few strings of lights and some tinselly garland. Just a little nudge toward the season?

thejunipertree: (Default)
The Good:
The Cadillac has been returned to me, with a shiny new water pump and various hoses/belts. Hopefully, she'll stop acting assy and beginning driving like a normal car for me. Because I can't take this shit. My father and I have made the deal that he will pay the mechanic and I will pay him back slowly, whenever I get the extra money. Still don't know the total, however. And once it looks like the car's going to remain ok, we're going to start working on restoring it entirely.

The Bad:
Simon, the Golden Rat Who Can Do No Wrong, has a tumour, a very small one.
Jesus. I can't get a break, can I?

The Doesn't Make Any Sense:
I'm so thirsty, it's starting to make me feel queasy. And the only thing helping is absolutely ice cold water.
thejunipertree: (will you still love me when I'm down and)
Not only is the car still alive, but I even have it back!

Apparently, all of the issues could be chalked up to the old and corroded fuel filter. And the fact that I was two quarts low on transmisson fluid. It would appear that I've a tiny leak and now there's a third thing I need to check once a week, to make sure that I'm not running low.

My father also told the mechanic to check out my air conditioning, which hasn't worked since last summer, when we had it fixed the first time. They installed a new blower and every thing seemed a-ok, in fact I was highly enjoying life as I drove down the highway with all the windows up and the air running, until it decided to punk out on me. One minute, frosty air shooting through the vents at my face. The next, nada.

Tomorrow will prove to be a phone-calling event when I ring the mechanic and ask him what the fuck is this business, my air not working.

I spent the day with my dad, who came home early from work, which was nice. We don't see a whole hell of a lot of each other and when we do, it tends to be very short. Today, we had several hours (two of which included watching Shaun of the Dead together, which he found very silly, but enjoyable).

He keeps discussing all manner of legal paperwork for when he dies, which isn't putting me in the best of moods. I recognize that I need to know these things, but it doesn't make it any less depressing. My father, who has been a bear/fireplug hybrid of a man my entire life, is not allowed to grow weak and die. It's simply just not acceptable. I know that he's the sort to just drop dead all of a sudden, there's next to no fear of having to take care of him on his sick bed like I had to do with my mom.

To be honest, I'm not sure which is worse.
thejunipertree: (wobble)
Generally, one when has a life insurance policy on a car, what happens when one dies?
The car is paid off?

Not so in this world.

I was so angry today that my vision got black and tunnelly around the edges. I do not enjoy being lied to, especially when that same person attempted to soothe my worries a month ago and told me that this was all a mistake, that it would all be taken care of, and that the car would be fully paid off. My profanity was mind-boggling and enormous.

You can take up the car payments...

Ordinarily, I feel ashamed when I lose my temper on some sort of customer-service person. However, this one lied to me. Completely. And there's not a goddamn thing I can do about it. I already checked. The underwriter from the life insurance had the good graces to actually explain this mess to me. I'm not about to get into the details, because it would truly take much longer than I care, but the existence of the bankruptcy is why my mother's car is not fully paid off.

They did pay off about 14K of what was owed, leaving 6k. My brother does not seem overly too concerned about this, and in fact, stayed quite calm in the face of my shouting, raging storm. I told him that he has to deal with the car loan company from now on, that I just can't do it anymore. He's ok with that, which is good. He's going to look into trading the car in for something else. Failing that, he might take up the payments, despite how astronomically high they are.

This entire incident, mind you, took place within fifteen minutes of me arriving at work. An incredibly shitty way to start off my work day on a date I was already feeling ooky about. Today marks the one year anniversary of my mother leaving this apartment to go to the hospital and never returning home.

I knew it was coming. I felt it making its way over the horizon like some black, sorrowful beast. I stood here and watched the wave rise over my head and threaten to engulf everything I held dear. It's a slow crash, coming down around me, but a crash nonetheless.

(Additionally, today is the Engineer's birthday. I attempted to put on the smiley face, for him. Don't know how well I succeeded in that. Especially considering that 3/4 of the way through celebrating with his family, I passed out on his couch, curled up in a kitten ball. I am so sorry.)

On Saturday, I sat next to my father on the tailgate of his pick-up truck, swinging my legs, and saluted the poppies she planted so many years ago. They're some of the few flowers she planted that are still around his property, most of them have died. And these ones would have gone the way of the wee bin, if he hadn't seen them bloom last year and thusly realized that they were 1. not weeds and 2. extremely beautiful.

I miss her, brat.
So do I, Daddy.
thejunipertree: (Default)
I called my old high school, regarding my transcripts and immunization records. Unfortunately, the rat bastards had an early dismissal because of the assy weather and the person I needed to speak to was not there. However, I was informed that a copy of my immunization records came with my diploma. And that if I wanted another copy it would take some time, as everything is on microfiche.

Microfiche? Do they have running water in their hut?

*snrk* )


Oct. 23rd, 2003 04:33 pm
thejunipertree: (Default)
I reckon I should tell the story of what went on last night, in the aquiring of said Cadillac.

Miss Robin drove me down to the boondocks, to my father's house, to pick up the car I have been crying over for eleven years. We sat in the dining room for a bit with my dad and Robin saw that not only was I NOT exagerrating the way my family is, but also downplaying it a bit. Not to mention that wee troll that lives with him rents a room from him.

We shoot the shit for awhile, then begin to get down to business of showing me the in's and out's of the car. There are so many freaking ghetto ass tricks of getting around the car's problems, it slays me. Really. The stereo has a problem where it sometimes just dissolves into static and you can't hear anything but that. The trick to solving this? Slamming the ashtray shut, I shit you not. Miss R almost pissed herself laughing the first time she witnessed me doing this.

Just don't drive it through the car wash, okay?

After a semi-shakey drive home, we decide it's time for a joyride and then a diner excursion. We give Ophelia a call, leave a message on her machine saying where we'll be, and set off.

Now there's a trick to shutting the driver's side door, see. You have to kind of lift it up as you shut it. I've always been well aware of this. However, after I parked the car and got out, it decided not to shut. I'd close it and it would bounce back at me. WTF?

It was soon discovered that the innards of the door weren't latching around the bolt they were supposed to. We decided to check the passenger door to see how the innards moved, to get a better idea of what's going on, as it had closed perfectly when Miss R shut it.

Door is opened, innards are examined, door is closed, right?

Now the passenger door won't shut either.

This long ass story eventually ends with me calling my father and telling him what's going on. At eleven thirty at night. When he gets up at four thirty in the morning for work. He got out of bed, drove all the way to where we were (about thirty five minutes away), and fiddled with the mechanisms on both doors until they worked again.

My theory is that since it's cold out and the car hasn't really been touched in a while, it was just being finicky. I'm probably going to WD-40 the shit out of it fairly soon. But, for now I have been taught another TRICK into getting around this problem if it happens again.

That being said, my dad told me to not lock the car. Which is a big pile of bullshit because of all the little hoodlums who live around here. I'm not letting my baby stay unlocked and unsupervised. Fuck that.

In closing, the following description was given by Miss R in her journal about my family:

The Munsters meet The Beverly Hill Billies but the dialog is much more along the lines of ... um I don't know, a Kevin Smith movie but much raunchier.

thejunipertree: (Default)

The 11th of July passed with absolutely no notice of mine. I'm fairly sure I noticed it last year, the anniversary of me being kickbanned from the UK. The beginning of the end, you might say.

And it's strange now, this feeling of emptiness in my chest. I'm not really sure what to name it, if there is indeed a name for this feeling.

I can't believe that I was that girl in the year 2000, so completely blindsided and hopeful and stupidly thinking every little thing is gonna be alright. That used to be my mantra, you know. Fucking Bob Marley. It came from me sitting in the bedroom of one of my old roommates, stoned out of my gills and talking so much shit about how my life was going to be. How it was to be green and golden. Every little thing is gonna be alright. I repeated it to myself over and over again, a futile chanting invocation against the powers that be, as I curled in a ball in the detention center at Heathrow International.

I repeated it to myself every single time his words arced through me, every little stab and prick of that ignorant knife. Every little thing is gonna be alright. I said it each morning when I opened my eyes and prepared to drudge through another nine hours of work that I despised. For him. For me. There was a meaning, there was a point. I was getting through this. I was going to walk through this dark tunnel to the light on the other side.

I repeated it to myself when he left me broken. I repeated it when he told me I'd forgotten how to dream. I repeated it when he compared me to his psycho ex-wife. Every little thing is gonna be alright.

I repeated it when I met the Engineer and schemed to make him mine. I repeated it every time I saw the Cheshire Cat and his grin at my arrival. I sang it to myself on the empty nights where I kicked myself for being so thoughtless. Every little thing is gonna be alright.

An endless loop, those seven small words. Constant run through my brain. It was my sword and shield. My proof that all of my efforts were for something. I drove alone up to Irish Hill in the middle of the night and screamed it at the sky, as my mother lie sick and near dying in the hospital. I held her hand and whispered it under my breath as she drifted, motionless, in a morphine haze. Over and over again.

My grandmother dying at home, starved to death because there was nothing else we could do for her but pump in more drugs. Letting her sip her Tanqueray through a straw, to hell with the nurses.

My father covering his face from me, hiding his tears.

Losing my job last summer.

My friend, Henry, dying two Halloweens ago. Far from his friends and refused the dignity of his religion to deliver him from this coil.

Every fight I've had, all the biting words I've thrown and had sent back to me on a goddamn gleaming platter.

All of it, each time: Every little thing is gonna be alright.

But, it's not going to. Is it? It never is. There's always something else, getting in the way. Always something bigger and worse to push us back down.

It's all fucking temporary. And I'm tired of deluding myself into believing that I'll make it out of each obstacles with my feet under me and a smile on my face. I'm sick of it. It's foolish.

This is temporary.
I'll not play the fool any longer.

I'll get through whatever is thrown at me. Not because of the good grace of God, but of my own voalition. My own steam. I'm Queen of this fucking shitheap and it would behoove the Fates to grasp that notion and mark it in their fucking dayplanner.

I'm not going to be pushed around any longer.
thejunipertree: (Default)
Argh. It's been many days. I'll try to break the weekend down for you.


* chemotherapy and discussing with the doctor about my mother's upcoming PET scan and the if's of everything.
* knitting at chemo, while an annoying artist lady drew one of those big headed cartoon drawings of my mother on a horse, in a cowboy outfit. With my piercings on her. Because HAR HAR HAR PEOPLE WITH PIERCINGS ARE FUNNY.
* contemplate putting one of my knitting needles through the eye of the artist lady, as she won't shut up and I want to steal her shoes.
* attempt to buy new bras, but wind up with two new bras, a pair of undies that I wound up not liking, and a black velvet broomstick skirt.
* grocery shopping before the storm hits, by this point I'm tired and fuzzy headed and have eaten nigh on nothing all day long and into the night.
* once again run into the "I'm in my own fucking world!" guy that we've seen in the store before. Also see a girl that I worked with at Freedom Mortgage.
* Valentine's dinner cooked for the Engineer consisting of filet mignon stroganoff (damn, I did good) and umm, I forgot to make my special baby peas.
* I get gifts, which include the DVD boxed set of the first season of Six Feet Under, a DVD player, and a necklace that the Engineer made during his college stint.
* watch Mallrats before, during, and after dinner.
* attempt to watch Resident Evil, passing out during and waking up at two in the morning.


* storm still hasn't come, so I hie my ass to Delaware to buy smokes before it starts to snow.
* demand my father come to get his cigarettes, as it doubles my travel time to deliver them to him.
* My father shows up on my doorstep drunk and staggering, much to my dismay and anger and embarassment (more on this later).
* feed my father sandwiches and black coffee in an attempt to sober him up. He passes out in our big comfy chair.
* to the mall for the Engineer and I, as I wish to buy him his Valentine's present: a beautiful red and black chess set.
* The chess set, which I had previously thought to be $95, turns out to be that price for just the board and another $105 for the pieces. Fuck all that noise. Anger. Grr.
* I buy new shoes and a stuffed bat kitty from Hot Topic because I'm a corporate whore.
* Barnes and Noble sucks money out of me for a book called: Mama Lola, a Vodou priestess in Brooklyn. Hoo-waaaaah!
* home again, to my father who is still passed out. He finally wakes up, as we're hooking up my new DVD player. At around midnight thirty, he leaves.
* watching of the first disc of Six Feet Under, it's got a glitch in it which makes one of the scenes freeze up everytime it plays to that point.
* discover that it is illegal to film crows for profit.
* read until five in the morning.


* Get woken up at eight to give the cat his insulin shot, while my mother is trying to rouse me from my bed, I tell her that I can't get up because I'm "updating something". Clearly, I am still asleep and talking shit. Look out the window, the snow has finally started.
* wake up at noon, to the Engineer and his shoes in my bed.
* decide that another trip to the grocery store is needed, as we're almost out of milk and bread. I also desire pumpkin pie.
* before driving to the store, the car needs to be cleaned off. I get a shovel full of snow dumped ON MY HEAD because SOMEONE thinks I was purposely pushing snow off the roof of the car onto him with my broom.
* the grocery store is insane. There is probably about ten inches of snow on the ground and the plows haven't been through yet. I gleefully drive through it, gunning the gas around corners to make the car fishtail, yelling "WHEEEE!" everytime I do so. heh.
* Read for too long, get blurry eyed in the process.
* go outside to check on the snow every couple of hours. Yep. It's still there and still coming down like a bitch.
* finally pull my nose out of a book and decide to do some knitting, which I have ignored horribly for far too long. Ponder the concept of thee phat hat, which Carrie has made and which I covet most green eyed.
* watch the news for the weather forecast: it's snowing. And doesn't look like it's going to stop any time soon. New Jersey and Delaware have been put on Emergency Alert, blizzard conditions. So far, it seems like about sixteen inches and is supposed to continue through to late tomorrow. We're only about half way through the storm, as they tell us.


* half watching the Sopranos, which I don't follow ever. Smoking a cigarette. And waiting for the new episode of Oz to come on, so I can get my weekly fix of prison bitches and the men who shank them in the showers.
* pondering the joy that is work being most likely closed tomorrow.
* Damn that bitch is ugly.
thejunipertree: (Default)
Job interview today. Which went decidely odd. The woman who interviewed me spoke rather fast and didn't ask very many questions. Especially not the one which I dread hearing (and always hear at every interview).

So. Tell me a little about yourself?

I really despise that question. It's far too difficult to squish a life as complicated as my own into a short and concise thirty second soundbyte.

Would you like to hear about how I was a drug addict in college and that was one of the main reasons why I dropped out?

Or would you like to hear about how I pull my hair out uncontrollably and unconciously?

How about a story of the time I found my father's crystal meth stash when I was ten? And all the unnamed feelings resentment fear disappointment curiousity which arose after that.

Maybe you'd like to hear about the horrid betrayals I've inflicted on those I love and those who have loved me, all because I'm too fucked up too understand that I am indeed capable of being loved.

How about this, I can tell you all about how when I was sixteen I got involved with a guy seven years my senior. And you'll get to listen to all the gritty details of how he lied to me and terrified me and stole my purityinnocencetrust. And about how I've never ONCE felt truly clean since that day.

I could even tell you about I'm afraid that my cat hates me because everytime he comes near me, I have to stick a needle into him.

Or maybe I can even tell you the real reasons why I want to be a mortician.


She didn't ask that question. And I didn't say those things to her. So, I reckon the interview went fairly well. I don't know.
thejunipertree: (Default)
A phone call from my father last night totally ruined my weekend, which had started to be on the up and up.

Apparently, he came home to a busted hot water heater. Which resided in his basement. The same basement where just about everything I own is located. As well as all of my mother's doll collection and Christmas ornanments (most of which are older than I am).

Water everywhere. Cardboard boxes.

I drove over, with the Engineer to inspect the damages and try to clean it up. It's safe to say that there was about three or four inches of water in some spots of the basement, mostly located around the bulk area of my boxes. I began to lift and move, and shift things to the dry part of the basement which had been unhit. The boxes on the bottom of the pile were opened and inspected, reboxed (or just stuffed into an already existing, and not wet, box), then moved over by the Engineer.

The beginning of it all, the damage didn't appear to be all that bad. My mother's Santa Claus statue (which I don't even remember a time when it didn't exist. She loves this thing and apparently, it was rather expensive even 30 years ago.) had a chunk missing from one of his boots. Which I think is because he's plaster and had been sitting in water. The broken off piece was located and put near him, for safekeeping.

The more I delved into the pile, the more damage I began to incur. Though, it was still kept at a minimum. The most distressing of it was two of my paintings, completely ruined. I picked the first one up and saw the water stain on the back of it and almost started to cry. I didn't even want to go back into the box to see how the rest of them fared, but I forced myself into doing it. A second painting pulled out, more held back tears and a lot of profanity. They were the only two paintings I finished from the death portraits series I had started work on so many years ago of all my friends who had died. The one was of Chris and the other was of my friend Dawn, who had been in the band Fear of God. The rest of the paintings seemed fine, and they were promptly moved.

The only other big thing of mine that had to be trashed was my copy of Lenore #1, which had previously been in perfect condition. My mother's damages were far worse.

She collects bride dolls, which I don't believe I've mentioned on here before. Big, porcelain, and quite expensive. Collector's items, which are beautifully made. I think she's got 28 of them, in all. And we haven't moved them to the apartment because of our damnable walls and how unforgiving they are of shelves being hung on them. Four of them, or rather their boxes, were ruined. The dolls inside the boxes seemed to be intact and I moved them to one of my big suitcases with a lot of packing and bubble wrap. But, the boxes were destroyed. And part of their value, most of their value in some cases, lies in their boxes. They're just not worth as much without the original packing. She is, quite understandably, very upset about this.

The thing which chafes my tits about that is we had all of those boxes in trash bags, TO PROTECT THEM FROM WATER DAMAGE. But, it appeared as if something had been gnawing at the bags. Either that or someone was not as careful with moving the bags, as they should have been.

Another, unrelated, distress was the finding of a dead baby Pine Rattlesnake. Smushed under one of the boxes I had moved. Dead, yes. But, still a rattlesnake. In my father's basement which I step foot in quite often. I knew that there had been rattlers found on his property before. Hell, when I was little I watched him kill one with a shovel when it was found in the fenced in portion of his property. And a lot of other snakes have been found in or near the house, but those weren't venomous. Just big (like the enormous black snake I found sunning itself on the concrete portion of his deck eight years ago).

Rattlesnakes. In the basement. oh-my-fucking-god.

I, being the twisted girl that I can be, put the corpse in an empty coffee tin and brought it home with me. Now, I just need to find a suitable jar for its new home in my collection of dead things.


My father is going to wet vac the rest of the water out of the basement and we're going to lay down pallets, for the boxes to go onto. Then, I need to go over there and rebox, relabel, and rearrange everything. I'm also trying to convince him to finally go through everything which is down there and begin the process of clearing out all the useless bullshit which I know is lying in wait.

His house is like a gypsy heaven. Between my deceased grandmother's belongings and all the crap that Mel (the woman who used to take care of my grandmother and now rents a room from my dad) brings home, it looks like a discount store. Only extremely unorganised. It gives me the itchies, to be there for more than an hour. Because I want to start rearranging and organising, but I feel like it would be impolite.

However, now that I sit here and think about it, I don't give a damn. It's my father's house and will one day be MY house. And I'd prefer that it didn't burn down in the near or far future because of all this shit which is stored there.

This woman, she is a nutjob. I've never seen so much crap in my life. And it's ALL crap. Dollar store food, stored in the basement. Most of which, to my sight, is long past any expiration dates that may be stamped on. She also likes to visit the senior citizen apartment building where she used to live, and bring home things from the tenants there. Things which she has ABSOLUTELY no use for. Not only that, but whenever anyone dies in that building, all the other tenants (and her) become vultures. And they STEAL that person's belongings.

My father's house makes any OCD complexes I may have go into overdrive. I can't handle it and something simply must be done.


thejunipertree: (Default)

January 2011

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